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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732332">hellhole</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler'>envysparkler</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Batfamily (DCU), Broken Bones, Explosions, Gen, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Trapped, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:47:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732332</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Red Hood is fond of explosions.  Sometimes explosions are not fond of him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1114</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hellhole</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Your regular reminder that the author does not care about canon and also that this takes place in a vaguely defined timeline.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>“Note to self,” Jason said into the darkness, his voice nearly drowned out by the ringing in his ears, “Do not overestimate the intelligence of henchmen, especially when it comes to <em>not</em> shooting at the giant goddamn pile of explosives.”</p><p> </p><p>The words echoed in the small space, chasing away the scrape of metal and unhinged laughter and the smell of dirt.  The iron on his tongue was real, though, as were the bursts of pain when he shifted.</p><p> </p><p>“And here I thought I used up my lifetime quota of being stuck underground.”</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t actually underground—he’d been on the ground floor when a bullet ripped through the packaging of the bomb and brought the whole building down—but given the crushing pressure on top of him and the absolute darkness that met his eyes, he might as well be.</p><p> </p><p>He found the catches along his helmet with one working arm—the other shrieked if he so much as <em>thought</em> in its direction—and pulled it off, taking a huge gulp of air to reassure himself that it didn’t taste stale.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t underground.  He wasn’t dead.  He’d had a minor setback, that was all.  He just needed to get out of the rubble and everything would be fine.</p><p> </p><p>Jason felt along the shapes of the space he was in.  The ridged, flat surface seemed…smoother than rubble usually was, and he explored along it until he hit the back.  He still couldn’t see anything, but given that his last memory was diving for cover, he concluded that the shelving must’ve fallen on top of him, and was probably also the source of the sharp edge digging into his right thigh.</p><p> </p><p>Jason tried to lift the shelf, at least enough to wriggle his legs out from under it, but it was too heavy, forced down with the weight of rubble.  He ruthlessly suppressed the panic screeching <em>trapped</em> on a loop in the back of his head and tried to objectively evaluate the situation.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t sure if he could get the shelf off of him, even if he forced his screaming—broken?  dislocated?  both?—arm to help.  The edge was driving into his leg, into his <em>bone</em>, and pain radiated out every time he tried to shift.  He had various other aches and bruises, but those two were the worst, and one of them was not letting him move.</p><p> </p><p>It was possible that this was the point when he should call for help.</p><p> </p><p>The problem was that he hadn’t updated anyone on this case, he’d definitely been using borderline-unapproved of methods even before the building had blown up, and he’d last spoken to the Bats over a week ago, when he’d walked out in the middle of a moral argument with Bruce and cut all contact.</p><p> </p><p>“Pride before a fall,” Jason huffed, and momentarily entertained the thought of just lying there in the silence.</p><p> </p><p>Alone.  It was quiet now that the ringing had stopped.  He could just…sleep.  And not wake up.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, given that the universe loved fucking him over, he’d probably wake up inside an urn this time.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t a goddamn coward, he could swallow his ego and call for an evac—and there were other people in the warehouse, too, so really he was just alerting the Bats to a mass casualty, like a good neighbor.</p><p> </p><p>Jason turned his comm on and was met with the familiar sound of static.</p><p> </p><p>“This is Hood,” he said, trying to clear the rough gravel from his tone, “Hello, uh, whoever’s listening—O, if that’s you, I am very sorry about that tracker I left in pieces, it wasn’t anything personal.”</p><p> </p><p>Nothing but continued static.</p><p> </p><p>“I—I’m stuck under a building.  A warehouse blew up.  Not my fault.  But I could…use an assist.  If anyone’s there.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, the static sounded like voices.  Just one moment.</p><p> </p><p>“O?  Oracle?”  Silence.  Jason swallowed, his throat dry.  “B?  You there?”  The static sounded like a bee softly buzzing in his ear.  “Hello?  Anyone?  Red Hood, calling to the Cave.”</p><p> </p><p>Laughter.  Faint and getting stronger.</p><p> </p><p>“Batman?”  His voice was small.</p><p> </p><p>Silence.</p><p> </p><p>Jason exhaled in a rush, his breaths ragged, and tried to pretend that the snuffed-out hope hadn’t gutted him.  “Okay,” he said out loud—anything to drown out that god-awful laughter.  “Not the first time you were trapped in a warehouse with no one coming.  Definitely older, stronger, and smarter this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Maybe no one was at the comms.  Maybe the rubble was dampening the signal.  Maybe it was broken.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter.  All that mattered was that Jason was alone, no help was coming, and he needed to get out.</p><p> </p><p>First things first, he had to get unstuck.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Jason, think.  How are you going to get this shelf off?”  He felt along the edges of it, curling up into the pocket of air above him to feel around the edge pinning his leg down—something in his side burned at the movement, but he ignored it.</p><p> </p><p>The good news—and the reason his other leg wasn’t pinned—was that the shelf was supported in part by a metal locker, just barely below his right leg.  If Jason could twist his leg, or shuffle it slightly, he’d be able to yank it free.</p><p> </p><p>Jason wriggled around until he was mostly sitting up and braced his right elbow on the ground before he grabbed the edge.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he said out loud, “Three, two, one—” He pushed up at the shelf and kicked out, forcing his leg towards him—the edge caught against his leg and <em>scraped—</em></p><p> </p><p>The shelf rumbled and resettled against the metal locker.</p><p> </p><p>Four gasping breaths later, the pain had settled back to a dull throb and Jason eased his legs out of the gap.  There was no blood, but his right leg strenuously protested every little movement.  Broken.  Or at the very least something was cracked.  It certainly felt swollen to Jason’s careful, probing examination.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Jason breathed, resting his head against the side of the shelf.  “Not stuck anymore.  Now I just need to get out.”</p><p> </p><p>A part of his mind lit up with a hysterical giggle, <em>oh is that all?</em>  The other part of his mind quickly and dispassionately calculated all the positives in his situation.  His hands weren’t tied.  The door wasn’t padlocked shut, and if it was it didn’t matter anyway.  He wasn’t under six feet of dirt with nothing but a dead boy’s suit.  Every bone in his body wasn’t broken with the echoing sound of unhinged laughter.</p><p> </p><p>Positives.  Nobody was shooting at him, no irritating Bats in his ear, no imminent danger of death.  This was practically a vacation.</p><p> </p><p>The shelf was tilted up, caught by assorted debris, and Jason took a moment to angle himself—if the shelf was facing <em>this</em> way, then the bomb had come from his left.  Jason had been attempting to get away before the bomb had gone off, so—he thought back to the floor plan he’d gone over and oriented himself to the nearest wall.  Behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Jason slowly crawled out from under the shelf—the shelf had created a little tunnel of space beside it, and aside from a plethora of catwalks, the warehouse had only one floor.  There shouldn’t be too much rubble to shift through, and Jason didn’t think that the roofing was heavy enough to cause problems.</p><p> </p><p>He hit the first obstacle at the end of the shelf, where a heavy sheet of metal blocked his path forward.</p><p> </p><p>Jason paused, shifting his weight back to his good knee—he was pretty much dragging the other leg at this point, ignoring the brief jolts of pain and being very careful not to bang it into anything—and reached out with his good arm to better catalogue the obstacle.</p><p> </p><p>Definitely metal.  Heavy—it didn’t budge at Jason’s push.  He explored it further, and paused when his hand slipped through a pocket of air, sliding past a metal bar.</p><p> </p><p>A railing.  It must’ve been one of the catwalks.</p><p> </p><p>If it was, Jason was certainly in luck.  It looked like the roofing had fallen in pieces, and the slabs were large enough to be caught by the catwalk railings, leaving them as little tunnels.  He could use them to crawl comfortably around the warehouse.</p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately the space between the railing and the catwalk was going to be a very tight fit.</p><p> </p><p>“I have no idea if this is the universe’s idea of luck or torture,” Jason said, gritting his teeth as he twisted around to enter the space on his back.  He fit his head through the gap, carefully maneuvered the injured shoulder as he eased inside, and curled a hand around the railing to push himself through.</p><p> </p><p>It was going well right up until it wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Jason swallowed.  Something had caught on the edge of the railing—his jacket?—and was sending jagged pulses of pain through his stomach as he tried to get the rest of his upper body through the gap.  “I feel like I’m going to regret this,” Jason said, and pushed down <em>hard</em> against the railing.</p><p> </p><p>Something really <em>was</em> stuck—his stomach was on fire, it felt like he’d swallowed glass—but he scraped through with a strangled scream.</p><p> </p><p>“This is not the worst pain you’ve ever been in,” Jason reminded himself between heaving breaths.  He briefly entertained the idea of taking a break there, pausing until the pain ebbed, but his tailbone was pressing against the edge of the catwalk and his back was half-contorted—it was uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>And the catwalk was sudden open space, dark shadows giving way to something that may have been gray in the distance.  He was exposed out here, and he had not been alone in the warehouse.</p><p> </p><p>“On three,” Jason murmured, bracing himself with his good leg and counting down inside his head.</p><p> </p><p>He pushed off the ground, pushed off the railing as he thrust <em>up—</em>it was a tight fit, it was getting tighter, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t get stuck here, he <em>couldn’t—</em>panic overrode caution as he fought to get his legs past the railing, fought—</p><p> </p><p>His broken femur hit the catwalk and his vision went <em>white</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He came back to ragged sobs, to wetness dripping down his face, to the dryness in his throat that meant he’d screamed.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t have the time to be careful, he didn’t know who might’ve heard him, if he procrastinated any longer he’d pass out halfway through—Jason turned his head until the collar of his leather jacket brushed his face, and he bit down.</p><p> </p><p>Inch by inch, ragged breath by strangled whine, Jason eased his broken leg through the small gap and onto the catwalk.  Dragging the rest of his legs through was easier, but fire jolted through him with every movement—when he was done, he slumped back and focused on breathing.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Jason bit out as he tried to exhale through the pain.  His leg felt like someone had shoved jagged metal splinters into his thigh, his arm and shoulder were pulsing so loud he could <em>hear</em> it, and his stomach seized like it was being stabbed with every breath.</p><p> </p><p>That—that wasn’t normal.  Jason moved his uninjured hand, patting down on his stomach to try and—pain, hot and flaring, radiating out from something sharp sticking out of his shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Jason breathed out.  Blood.  Sticky, tacky, and too much not to be concerning.  Metal, to Jason’s clumsy fingers.  Great, he was going to need a tetanus shot on top of everything else.</p><p> </p><p>Jason let his head thud against the catwalk.  “At least it’s not a crowbar?” he tried.  The darkness did not deign to answer.  His comm spit back only static.</p><p> </p><p>Jason groaned and twisted back to his hands—one hand, the other limp and useless—and knees—one knee, the other extended and dragging along—to crawl along the catwalk.  He thought he remembered it intersecting with another catwalk that forked to lead to a skylight.  Presuming that the roofing had fallen more or less along the same lines, that would be his way out.</p><p> </p><p>It sounded so simple in his head.</p><p> </p><p>Tears dripped freely down his face as he choked back sobs, the pain flaring so badly he needed to stop every three feet to take several ragged breaths and avoid passing out.  Right after he turned the corner, he came across a section where the catwalk railing had been crushed by a large rafter, and the space was so narrow he needed to crawl on his stomach to get through.</p><p> </p><p>Jason bit back a whimper and dropped his head.  It felt like invisible fingers had curled around his limbs, pulling him down.  Dragging him back to the hell he’d crawled out of.  Forcing him down, where he belonged, where he never should’ve left.</p><p> </p><p>Jason carefully eased himself down, curling his broken arm below the sharp metal piece sticking of his stomach—he couldn’t let it scrape across the floor—and gritting his teeth through the agony as he straightened his broken leg.</p><p> </p><p>“You crawled out of your own grave,” Jason reminded himself.  Alone and buried and still half-dead.  “This isn’t even that bad.”  Painful?  Undoubtedly.  But it wouldn’t be suffocating or terrifying or near-impossible.</p><p> </p><p>He dragged himself forward an inch, pulling with his right arm, pushing with his left leg.  Fire, curling around him, shrieking in his ear.</p><p> </p><p>Another inch.  The darkness was beginning to burst with colors—a wide smile, a red mask, <em>green</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Another inch.  His gasps echoed loudly around him, soft screams biting into his ears.</p><p> </p><p>Another inch.  Wetness on his face, wetness in his hand, wracking sobs shuddering through his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Almost there,” he mumbled.  Or the darkness mumbled.  The words reverberated around him.  Almost there.  <em>Almost</em> there.  Almost <em>there</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Almost where?</p><p> </p><p>Forward.  He had to keep going forward.  It would stop hurting if he kept going forward.  Maybe.  He didn’t know.  It hurt so much.  He just wanted it to <em>stop hurting</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Up?  No, no up, colors burst again.  No left, no right.  Couldn’t go back.  Stuck.  He was stuck.</p><p> </p><p>“Just,” he slurred, “A little further.”</p><p> </p><p>Other shapes were coalescing in the darkness.  Jagged, broken beams.  Twisted metal.  Glass shards, glittering under his fingers, staining red under his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Almost—” A crowbar slamming into his leg, the sickening <em>crack</em>, the pain, the pain was everywhere, it was broken-fire-scream in his shoulder and sick-twisted-hot in his stomach and no-please-stop and I’m-going-to-die.</p><p> </p><p>A hole.  Cold air drifting across his face.  Dark sky, vaguely orange with smog and streetlights.</p><p> </p><p>A pointed cowl.  Safe.  Protection.  <em>Home</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The fire screamed and he stopped fighting it.</p><p> </p><p>Something closed around his wrist and he let it—he only realized what was happening after the grip started <em>pulling</em>, started dragging him forward—his shoulder glanced off something hard and it washed out his vision, he couldn’t <em>breathe—</em>his leg was jostled as he jerked forward and he <em>screamed—</em></p><p> </p><p>Darkness.  Cold, comforting darkness flickering at the edges of his vision.  He seized onto it with a sob, trying to block out the agony, the voices, <em>everything.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Jason.  Jason.  <em>Jay</em>.”  Quiet, and increasingly frantic.  “Jason, open your eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason didn’t want to open his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason—Jay, <em>please</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Couldn’t he have five more minutes?</p><p> </p><p>“Jay-lad.”  Soft, choked.</p><p> </p><p>Jason groaned and cracked open his eyes.  It hurt.  <em>Everything</em> hurt.  The cowl was squarely in his field of vision, bat ears darker than the night behind it.</p><p> </p><p>“Dad?” Jason murmured.  He just wanted to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Something went still around him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, son.”  A hand brushing the hair out of his face.  “This is going to hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s mind pieced together that sentence at about the moment he was yanked up, and his objections were drowned in a piercing scream as the fire <em>flared</em>, burning white-hot—</p><p> </p><p>And dissolving into darkness.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A door handle that wouldn’t turn, no matter how desperately he pulled, a <em>click-click-click</em> of a timer winding down, searing, burning pain that swallowed him whole—</p><p> </p><p>Suffocating, terrified, darkness, splinters jammed beneath his fingernails and dirt in his mouth—</p><p> </p><p><em>Green</em> and <em>burning</em> and <em>fire—</em></p><p> </p><p>The crowbar smashed down, again and again and again—his shoulder shrieked, his stomach churned, his leg <em>snapped—</em></p><p> </p><p>Softness, under his head.</p><p> </p><p>Warmth, curled along his right side and slung across his chest.  The tapping of keyboard keys, a pressure under his leg.  Something curled around his wrist and pressing against his pulse.</p><p> </p><p>Jason let his eyes flutter open—the last thing he remembered was danger and darkness and pain, but there was hair tickling his neck and toes wriggling under his leg and small fingers on his wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Dim light.  A mop of dark hair bent over a laptop screen.  A scowling face perched far too close to the throbbing pain in his leg.  The edges of a tousled head in the corner of his vision.</p><p> </p><p>Bruce, his face lined, his eyes solemn, and Jason watched as his expression brightened.  “Jason,” he breathed out, sounding desperately relieved.</p><p> </p><p>Jason made an inquiring sound.  He needed to get up and go back to his safehouse, lick his wounds in peace and quiet, avoid the arguments he knew would flare up if he stuck around—</p><p> </p><p>But he was warm.  And safe.  And whatever else that Batman and Bruce represented, his oldest memories were of <em>home</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“We found you in the rubble of a warehouse near the docks,” Bruce said quietly.  The tapping of the keyboard stopped and Tim peered at him.  Jason squinted at him—he’d shoved his feet under Jason’s leg for some reason—and at Damian—whose scowl had deepened, now holding Jason’s wrist like it was a live bomb.</p><p> </p><p>By process of elimination, the octopus wrapped around him was Dick, which sounded about right.</p><p> </p><p>“How did you find me?” Jason croaked out, ignoring his brothers.  He’d need a scalpel to extract Dick, and he didn’t have the energy or patience.</p><p> </p><p>Something spasmed across Tim and Damian’s faces.  Bruce’s expression made no visible change, but his eyes grew hollow.</p><p> </p><p>“You called for help,” Bruce said gently.</p><p> </p><p>Jason frowned.  He distinctly remembered that the comm hadn’t been working.</p><p> </p><p>“The receiver was broken, but we could hear you,” Tim said, his gaze still fixed on Jason.</p><p> </p><p>Oh.  Jason hoped he hadn’t said anything embarrassing.  He remembered talking out loud to fill the silence with something other than laughter, and also remembered biting down sobs until he gave up on suppressing them.  Was that why they were all looking at him like he was going to fracture?</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” Jason tried, “Appreciate the help.”  <em>Why are you gathered around me like I’m on my deathbed</em>, he didn’t ask.  “What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“They managed to get everyone out of the rubble,” Bruce reported, “No fires.  Five people died, and sixteen are in the hospital.  The explosion extended to two nearby buildings, but they didn’t collapse.”</p><p> </p><p>Five people dead.  Jason swallowed against a dry throat.  “I didn’t set it,” he said quietly.  He didn’t want to get Bruce’s disappointed, disapproving look.  Not now, not when he couldn’t hide or run.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t set what?”</p><p> </p><p>“The explosion,” Jason said, watching Bruce carefully, “Wasn’t mine.  Some idiot thought it would be a fun idea to shoot a pile of explosives.”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce stared at him, surprised—Jason felt the sinking sensation of dread—before confusion cleared to realization, then sorrow.</p><p> </p><p>“No, Jason, that wasn’t—I wasn’t blaming you.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t think you set it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tt.  Not even <em>you</em> would be incompetent enough to set off an explosion before you managed to exit the premises.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, I think,” Jason huffed, twisting his wrist so that Damian’s fingers moved from his pulse point to curled between his own.  Damian huffed, but allowed the change.  “What’s the damage?  Because I thought I had a couple of broken bones, but you’re all staring at me like I stopped breathing.”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce’s face grew pinched.  “Dislocated shoulder, broken arm, broken leg, several cuts and bruises—oh, and a <em>three inch</em> piece of metal stuck in your gut,” Tim recited, glaring, “You needed a tetanus shot for that, and antibiotics because god knows what you picked up crawling around in that warehouse.”</p><p> </p><p>He seemed upset about that.  All of them seemed upset, it was giving him hives.  “Okay, so it sounds like I’ll be just fine,” Jason said, shifting—he couldn’t quite hide the wince of pain and they all tensed.  “You can stop with the mother-henning.”</p><p> </p><p>None of them moved.</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously, guys, I’m not going to break—this isn’t even the <em>worst</em> warehouse explosion I’ve been in.”</p><p> </p><p>All of them flinched.</p><p> </p><p>“That, Little Wing,” Dick’s voice rumbled against his chest, “Is entirely the point.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Bruce leaned forward and brushed the hair out of his face.  Jason felt his throat swell up.  “If you’re feeling uncomfortable, we can, of course, leave.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick’s arms tightened around him, Damian’s fingers turned into claws, and Tim’s feet went rigid under Jason’s leg.  He didn’t miss that all of them went still and pale.</p><p> </p><p>Batman had presumably found him in the rubble, back when he’d been Robin, back when he’d been dead.  Stumbling upon him in the ruins of <em>another</em> broken warehouse—okay, Jason could maybe understand why Bruce was looking at him like he’d disappear if he blinked.</p><p> </p><p>Jason leaned into Bruce’s hand, into the warmth.  “Don’t care what you do,” he muttered, “As long as you don’t wake me up.”</p><p> </p><p>His brothers relaxed.  Bruce’s fingers resumed stroking his hair, slowly drawing him back to sleep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>“This is Hood,” the voice crackled, sudden and rough, “Hello, uh, whoever’s listening—O, if that’s you, I am very sorry about that tracker I left in pieces, it wasn’t anything personal.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Wasn’t anything—goddammit, Hood, do you think trackers grow on trees?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I—I’m stuck under a building.  A warehouse blew up.  Not my fault.  But I could…use an assist.  If anyone’s there.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Shit</em>.  Okay.  Report of a warehouse exploding near the docks.  Is that where you are?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“O?  Oracle?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood?  Can you hear me?  Hood?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A rough swallow.  “B?  You there?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood, this is Oracle, can you hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Hello?  Anyone?  Red Hood, calling to the Cave.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I can you hear you loud and clear, Hood.  Hood?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Batman?”  The voice was quiet.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A low curse.  “Batman, are you there?  Hood’s been caught in an explosion near the docks.  Sending you location now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is Nightwing, heading there as well.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A ragged breath.  “Okay.  Not the first time you were trapped in a warehouse with no one coming.  Definitely older, stronger, and smarter this time.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Several sharp inhales.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus Christ, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oracle?  What’s going on?”</p><p> </p><p>“He can’t hear us, and I can’t get a lock on his signal.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Come on, Jason, think.  How are you going to get this shelf off?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A low growl.  “I can see the building.  Where is he?”</p><p> </p><p>“This is N, I’ve made it too.”</p><p> </p><p><em>“Okay.  Three, two, one—” A hissed groan, several gasping breaths</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Oracle!”</p><p> </p><p>“I have no idea.  I’m pulling up nearby security cameras to see if I can find out what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Okay,” the voice said quietly, “Not stuck anymore.  Now I just need to get out.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood, we’re coming to you.  Hood.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hood, don’t move.”</p><p> </p><p>“He can’t hear you.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Quiet, ragged breathing.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, looking at the footage, Hood entered through the southwest corner fifteen minutes ago.  Things were silent for five minutes, then gunshots, then the explosion.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where is he <em>now</em>?”  A growl edging into frantic.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I have no idea if this is the universe’s idea of luck or torture.”  Breathing faster.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What is he <em>doing</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I feel like I’m going to regret this.”  A beat, and then a strangled scream.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Oracle!”</p><p> </p><p>“I am <em>trying</em>!  I don’t know where he is!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“This is not the worst pain you’ve ever been in.”  Gasping breaths.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Jason</em>.”  Low and mournful.</p><p> </p><p>“Hood—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“On three.”  An agonizing scream, loud and echoing, dying to ragged sobs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood, stop!  What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>He can’t hear us</em>, N, he’s trying to get out.”</p><p> </p><p>A low, vicious curse.  “Give me a direction, O.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hitched, strangled whines and soft, choked sobs.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“At this point, each of them are equally likely.  I’d suggest splitting up—one to each corner, work inwards.”</p><p> </p><p>“Work <em>inwards</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s trying to get out, which means he’s probably making for the walls.  Yes, work inwards, unless you want to lose him.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Fuck.”  Quiet, controlled breaths.  And then—“Shit.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“…That was not a good sign.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“At least it’s not a crowbar?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A low, wounded noise, echoing through the comms.</p><p> </p><p>“Goddamn fucking <em>explosions—</em>”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Harsh breathing, getting faster and harder.  Hissed groans, quiet gasps, several seconds of ragged, near-hyperventilating breathing.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I think I can hear something near the northwest corner.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You crawled out of your own grave.  This isn’t even that bad.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood—fuck, I’m going to <em>kill you</em> after this, you <em>idiot—</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Nightwing.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Gasps, desperate and pained.  Strangled screams, echoing oddly.  Crying.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Found him.  North wall.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Almost there.”  Quiet and choked.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Just—” soft and slurred, “A little further.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood, I can see you, stay where you are.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Almost—”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hood!”</p><p> </p><p>“I have him.  Send the Batmobile to my location.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A sharp, tearing scream.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Jason.  Jason.  <em>Jay</em>.”  Quiet, and increasingly frantic.  “Jason, open your eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“Jason—Jay, <em>please</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“Jay-lad.”  Soft, choked.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Dad?”  Barely louder than a whisper.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“B—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, son.”  Choked.  “This is going to hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A scream, sudden and sharp and piercing—fading out into ringing silence.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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